Memory Post One Week Five

Swirling red wine while a woman asks us what the first scent is,
I see my father, swirling, sipping, smelling his own glass
in Dahlonega with my mother. We're looking for a second home
in the mountains and they're checking off golfing, leisure,
and welcome baskets with cheese. But I'm alone here,
on the mountains in Montefalco, not looking for a home,
but learning of almonds and chocolate and the way the sun hits grapes
in the field, the way I still stare out the window at thousands of vines,
like my fifteen year old self, only this time, I can drink too.